


to recover what has been lost

by bluebeholder



Series: One and the Same [15]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Angst, Bittersweet Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Children In Danger, Identity Issues, M/M, Mage (Dragon Age) Rights, all the protagonists live
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-22
Updated: 2020-07-22
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:01:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25445800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebeholder/pseuds/bluebeholder
Summary: Early autumn, 9:37 DragonTemplars tracked Anders, Fenris, and the refugee mages they protect halfway across Thedas and launch a surprise attack in the middle of the night. In the aftermath, many—including Anders—are left questioning themselves.Those questions may not have answers.
Relationships: Anders/Fenris (Dragon Age)
Series: One and the Same [15]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1654444
Comments: 10
Kudos: 40





	to recover what has been lost

**Author's Note:**

> Heed the tags, please. This isn't...a really happy fic. 
> 
> Thanks to [Lesetoilesfous](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lesetoilesfous/pseuds/Lesetoilesfous) for the conversation that sparked this fic's concept!

The slash of a Templar’s sword takes Ostar to the ground. As an arrow from Shana’s bow skewers the Templar through his visor, Anders sprints to Ostar’s side and drops to his knees. The mercenary is breathing, but the breath rattles with blood. Anders summons up the magic to heal the mortal wound.

His hands shake. Justice is devoting all their other resources to the waves of healing energy from his panacea, leaving Anders with only weak healing magic available. He blinks away the fatigue and presses a hand to the gash across Ostar’s chest, beginning to knit the flesh back together.

“ _Look out!_ ” someone shouts.

Anders throws himself to the side, hitting the ground on his back to see a helmet-less Templar bringing his sword down where Anders’ head just was. In the flashing holy light off the sword, the Templar’s grimace looks demonic.

He can’t get his feet under him, rolling to the side again as the Templar brings his sword down in a second heavy chop. Of course. Of course he can’t cast anything _useful_.

The Templar closes, sword raised high. Anders braces himself.

A bolt of energy smashes into the Templar. He howls in pain as stone ripples out from the impact, wrapping around his body and petrifying him to stone. Anders pushes himself upright, spares a glance to Barbigia—encased in stone armor of his own—and rushes back to Ostar’s side.

He finishes the healing and turns as Ostar staggers back to his feet, already running to Alina’s aid as a trio of Templars force her back toward the fire. She’s bleeding badly, the blood black in the firelight, and if he doesn’t get there fast—

A Templar sets off a cleanse. White light ripples across the battlefield. Anders staggers, nearly going down again, as the panacea effect vanishes. He looks up to see Barbigia’s stone armor crumbling from his body, Maris’ shining golden barrier collapsing, Fenris’ lyrium flickering out.

The only good thing here is that _now_ he can do something.

Anders hurls a cone of cold across the field, over Tegren’s head as she fires her crossbow at point-blank range, catching the Templars closing on Alina in the blast and freezing them in place. A flash of burning blue hurtles across the field and Fenris is _there_ , leaping forward to shatter all three Templars with one terrible blow.

Yvonne’s piercing scream cuts through the shouts and explosions and clash of blades. Anders turns to see a Templar bearing down on her. She’s unarmed and even as he raises his staff to cast his heart drops. She won’t make it.

Stas roars out of the dark. The Templar, unprepared to be hit head on by a raging Tal-Vashoth, staggers back, lifting a sword in feeble defense. Stas’ war hammer comes down with a crash on the Templar’s head. The Templar goes down, helmet crushed under the blow.

Justice’s fury howls in his head and Anders fully agrees. He lets Justice erupt forward, the world fading into blue-white light, wrath in their shared veins. Ice cracks around Justice’s hands, more powerful magic than Anders can normally bring to bear.

Brithari, from her perch on one of the wagons, conjures a whirling abyss of energy that drags several of the Templars together into a close crowd. Justice hits them with another cone of cold and all that’s left is a great statue of ice, glittering eerily in the firelight, easy for Ornek to smash with a single strike. From behind Anders hears screams of pain and the roar of fire as Namaril immolates several Templars.

A Templar charges at Justice. It should hurt when Justice catches the sword bare-handed by the blade, but despite the blood pouring down their wrist there’s no pain. The Templar cries out in terror as Justice hurls her sword aside and with brutal efficiency snaps the Templar’s neck with both hands.

Behind them a Templar shouts a battle cry, a plea to the Maker, and Anders feels the painless horror of a sword slicing open his back. Justice turns. The Templar lets out a scream of terror and stumbles back, dropping his sword. Anders would feel mercy but the Templar’s sword is drenched in his blood and there’s blood on his clothes from one of Anders’ friends and there’s no reason to stop Justice from freezing the Templar’s face solid with ice. The Templar collapses, face black and twisted with frostbite, and doesn’t move again.

And just like that, it’s over.

No more screams. No more explosions. No more Templars.

Justice turns them, looking around at the field. Templar bodies—Anders isn’t sure exactly how many—lie sprawled in the night, crumpled shapes unmoving in the light of toppled lanterns and the bonfire. The ground is scorched, ripped and gouged, and the pull of gravity is still a little odd where the force mages did their work. Children, out of sight, are sobbing. The injured are moaning, crying for help.

By the time Justice cedes control of their body again, after a visibly-horrified Oudin heals their slashed back and hand, others are already marshaling a response. The Scar, impassive, works her way across the field, giving the _coup de grace_ to any Templars still alive; others are finding the injured mages and bringing them together for Oudin and Anders to heal. Anders hears Fenris out in the dark, calling for the people who scattered out of camp to take refuge in the dark when the Templars came down on them.

Anders goes to Alina first, worst injured of anyone. She isn’t yet a truly proficient fighter, and took a disabling hit to the shoulder, another to her leg that narrowly missed being a lethal blow. It’s unsettling to hear her making soft sounds of pain, see _tears_ running down her blood-splashed face, even as her expression remains neutral.

“Pain and injury are a natural response of the body,” Johann says serenely, kneeling beside Anders and handing him a lyrium potion. The sunburst brand on his forehead glints in the firelight. “That is a form of suffering we all share.”

Anders doesn’t quite know what to say to that. So he doesn’t speak at all. He downs the lyrium potion in one burning gulp and gets to work.

In the end, they lost no one, despite the suddenness of the attack. The Templars came out of nowhere, a contingent of thirty, relying on the element of surprise to kill as many mages as possible. It was lucky that Ashahari was up late repairing a wagon, that hair-trigger Malota and quick-thinking Ornek were on watch, that Anders and Fenris had been awake in their tent. The alarm was raised fast enough for the mages to fight back. The children and weaker mages had scattered into the night, wisely getting out of the way.

And despite all their injuries, no one is dead. Ostar, Alina, Halan, and Wilhelma will have a difficult recovery for the next few days, but they’ll be alive. Incredible, considering that Halan caught the brunt of a Templar’s smite and got stabbed in the process, and Wilhelma hasn’t got any fighting skill at all but decided to throw herself into the fight all the same.

Fenris finds Anders, after all the healing is done. Anders is sitting, leaning on the wheel of one of the wagons. After that fight, the injuries Justice sustained, and all the healing, he hasn’t got anything left and he’s shaking like a leaf in the wind. Fenris doesn’t say anything, just kneels beside Anders and pulls him into a tight embrace.

He didn’t even get a chance to put on armor, Anders realizes suddenly, when his cheek rests against the fabric of Fenris’ tunic.

“You’re lucky you’re alive,” he whispers.

“Very lucky.” Anders feels Fenris take a deep breath and exhale slowly. “When they cleansed the field and your healing stopped, I thought…”

Anders closes his eyes and nods. Fenris has never felt quite so…so fragile as he does right now. “I thought the same when your lyrium went out.”

“Thank your spirit for me,” Fenris says. His fingers brush over the slashed-open back of Anders’ shirt, the just-healed skin underneath. “This is a mortal wound.”

Justice offers a hum of concern. “I know,” Anders says. “That was…lucky.”

It’s strange, because they’ve been in much worse positions than this before. Perhaps it’s that this was a sudden attack at night, where they were caught fully unprepared, when they thought they were well out of reach of this sort of danger. Or perhaps it’s that there were noncombatants to protect, people who would be killed or made Tranquil if they hadn’t won.

Fenris’ fingers run through Anders’ hair slowly. As if he’s soothing himself. Anders swallows hard against the sudden burn of tears and tightens his hold on Fenris.

Which is when shouting breaks out. Both of them look up, Fenris reaching for his sword. It takes a moment for Anders to catch the thread, but then—

“They were tracking _her!_ ” Malota shouts, pointing at Yvonne. In her other hand dangles a glittering object on a chain. A phylactery.

“I didn’t know,” Yvonne says, clutching her arms as if hugging herself. “I _swear_.”

Fenris helps Anders to his feet. “Fasta vass, I thought none of you had phylacteries anymore,” he mutters.

“ _I_ do, but no one knows I’m alive, so.” Anders winces as he puts weight on his ankle. Must have twisted it while healing Ostar.

Malota glares down at Yvonne, who has never looked smaller or more frightened. “You never told us it wasn’t destroyed!”

“I thought it wouldn’t be a problem,” Yvonne says. “I thought it would be too far for them to bother tracking me from Ghislain.”

“You were wrong,” Malota snaps, “and we all could have paid the price!”

Yvonne covers her face with her hands. “That’s enough,” Brithari says, coming up beside Yvonne. “We’re all alive.”

“It doesn’t change the fact that she should have _destroyed this_ before coming here,” Malota says, shaking the phylactery.

Barbigia, still with dust from his armor on his shoulders, clears his throat. “She’s quite right,” he says. “I destroyed mine.”

“Yes, well, not everyone is you,” Brithari says.

“Your friend Alina got half the phylacteries in Ostwick,” Barbigia points out.

Brithari scowls. “And got made _Tranquil_ for it. We can’t all run that risk and Yvonne—”

“Everyone—” Anders starts, only to be cut off.

“How about you all shut the fuck up,” Stas says, from where he sits on the back of a wagon. It’s conversational, but his deep voice cuts right through the conversation. “Nobody’s dead. We all make mistakes. Way I see it, no one here did anything wrong. _And_ you’re making Yvonne cry.”

That last _is_ said with a tone of distinct menace. It’s enough for the fight to disperse. Malota shatters the phylactery with a flash of pure force before stalking away. The scars on her face, the origin of which she’s only explained tersely as “from Templars,” are particularly visible in this light.

“Well, then,” Fenris says. His arm is still around Anders’ waist, and clearly not going anywhere. “I appreciate someone speaking sense. It would have been ideal for her to deal with it, but…things are not always so simple.”

At his rueful tone, Anders leans down and presses a dry kiss to Fenris’ hair. “They aren’t,” he says softly. He looks back to Yvonne to see her talking quietly to Stas, obviously thanking him. It might be Anders’ imagination and the bad lighting, but it appears that the mercenary might be _blushing_.

The following morning, they elect to remain in place for another day. With people recovering from injuries, it’s unwise to move too fast. Still, Fenris leads a team out at dawn to sweep the surrounding area, to find any enemies left. They bring back horses and a pack mule, carrying the Templars’ supplies, which is the silver lining on this whole mess. The Templars had good supplies of food and other sundries for their company, as well as individual supplies like bedrolls, flint and steel, rope, and so on.

By noon, things have almost taken on an air of cheer. Defeating Templars is always good for the soul, Anders feels. He makes himself busy with attending to the recovering wounded and speaking to everyone about last night.

The children have all framed the terrible battle as a moment of glory. Athel and Bertrand, who took down a Templar together, boast of their prowess to anyone who will listen; Lea nobly reminds everyone that _she_ kept the youngest boys safe in the dark. It’s sweet, in a depressing way.

“Children should not have to experience anything like that,” Fenris says to Anders, watching Lea skip away to tell her story to anyone else who will hear her. “Even if they can paper it over in gold.”

Yvonne has taken up residence in one of the wagons, mending all the damaged clothes (including Anders’ shirt) and not looking at anyone. Anders is about to go over and speak to her when he sees Malota come up, offer what must be a terse apology, and quietly leave. A moment later, to Anders’ amusement, Stas makes an appearance. In an instant, Yvonne’s eyes brighten and she smiles.

In the interest of their privacy, Anders turns away to handle other business.

Near the end of the day, he and Fenris sit together outside their tent. The late sunlight is warm and feels very good on Anders’ face, and the rough grass seems right now as pleasant as plush pillows might. Libertas, who survived the fight unscathed, sits on Fenris’ lap with her ears twitching and eyes half-closed in the late sun while he lightly scratches her back. Anders has little to say. Fenris, likewise, is quiet. His head rests heavily on Anders’ shoulder.

Anders is looking down at his journal, absently putting down a few words—the number of Templars, their intent, and so on—when someone clears their throat. He looks up to see Fabian standing uncomfortably a few feet away. “All well?” Anders asks.

“Yes, I suppose,” Fabian says. “May I sit?”

“Of course,” Anders says.

Fabian sits down, cross-legged. He, of all the mages, has retained the… _hat_ , if such headgear can be called a hat…in the style many mages wore back at the Circle Tower. Before running for the last time, Anders knew him in passing, though Fabian was six years his junior and generally deeply unimpressed with Anders, so they’d never really spoken to one another.

After a long moment of silence, Anders asks, “What’s on your mind?”

“I wanted to apologize,” Fabian says wearily.

“Whatever _for_?” Anders asks. He closes his journal with a snap.

“I didn’t do much in the way of _helping_ last night.” Fabian looks very tired, tugging absently at one of the ties of his hat. “I threw a few spirit bolts, but mostly I just…hid.”

Anders blinks a few times. “You came out of it in one piece. I see no problem here.”

“The trouble is, other people _didn’t_ come out of it in one piece,” Fabian says. “If I’d helped…”

“There’s every chance you’d have been hacked to bits and I’d have had to put you together again,” Anders points out. “ _I_ was nearly hacked to bits!”

Fabian shrugs. “I still could have done more, and I’m sorry for that.”

“There’s nothing to apologize for.”

“I wish I could have done more,” Fabian says. His expression is stormy as he looks away toward the pyre where they’ll burn the bodies tomorrow before departing. “The rest of you did so much. You _fought_. You’re _warriors_.”

Fenris sits up straight at that. “And you are not,” he says, quiet. “ _Most_ of you here are not. You were a scribe, I thought?”

Fabian sighs. “Right.”

“No one teaches a scribe to battle someone to the death,” Fenris says, “nor, in my opinion, should they. Anders was a Grey Warden.”

“ _Is_ , technically,” Anders mutters.

Fenris elbows him lightly in the side. “Hush. What I am saying, Fabian, is that there are plenty of us here who can protect you. Who _will_ protect you.”

“We have to fight. Our magic makes us dangerous and I ought to use that…” Fabian says, though the argument feels weak to Anders when Fabian’s voice is so quiet and his demeanor so unhappy.

“You are a _scribe_ ,” Fenris says.

Anders nods. “You can cast a spirit bolt. So what? Any lunkhead can swing a sword. And we wouldn’t treat _them_ as a soldier, just because they _can_ pick up a weapon.”

“Anyone who would is not someone I would trust,” Fenris says with a shrug.

Fabian looks for a moment at both of them. “I begin to see why people called you a madman, Anders,” he says with a faint smile. “They said you wanted a revolution, but it doesn’t sound like you want revolutionaries at all…”

“I do want both those things,” Anders says, returning the smile, “but I don’t want to press-gang people into the fight who don’t want it. If you want to fight, then join in some practice. If you don’t, there’s nothing wrong with just standing clear when things get ugly.”

“We’ll see,” Fabian says. He shrugs again. “I’ll be off, then. Enjoy the afternoon.”

“You too,” Anders says, and as swiftly as he arrived, Fabian is gone.

Fenris sighs. “He is not wrong about your revolution,” he says. “We _do_ need more fighters, if we’re to succeed. But I agree, amatus. Not everyone is a soldier.”

“Not everyone _should_ be,” Anders says. He looks around the camp. If not for the staffs on prominent display and the fires being lit with magic, one could almost think no one here a mage at all. “I’m tired of mages being treated as weapons. Most of us don’t _want_ to fight, Maker knows I don’t. And more mages just…can’t.”

“I know,” Fenris says.

Anders rubs his face with both hands. “We’re people just like everyone else.”

Fenris leans against Anders again. “I know,” he repeats softly.

“I just wish…” Anders pauses. He looks around again. There are so many people with scars, jumping at shadows, hair-triggers, ready to cast a lethal spell at the slightest provocation. People who’ve been treated as living weapons for their entire lives.

People just like him.

“You wish…?” Fenris prompts.

Anders rests his head on Fenris’ shoulder. “I wish _we_ believed that about ourselves.”


End file.
